


At your disposal

by ellamason



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Flogging, M/M, Public Use, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/pseuds/ellamason
Summary: Canon-divergent AU: In a world where recidivists are guarded by the police officer who arrests them, Inspector Javert takes charge of Monsieur Madeleine.Also it's an accidental soulbond fic. Because why limit yourself to just one AU?





	At your disposal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



Jean Valjean offered his wrists and somehow Javert knew what he was going to say before his lips moved again.

“Now,” said Jean Valjean. “I am at your disposal.”

*

Valjean, who had once been Madeleine, was no stranger to Javert’s rooms. When the new law concerning the care of recidivists had been instituted, he had come to supervise the alterations that were made to Javert’s walls and floor.

The blacksmith had shuffled aside to allow the mayor to examine his handiwork. Two sets of manacles had been securely attached to the walls, the better to chain the prisoner’s wrists. Another two below took care of the ankles while two lower hooks allowed for a prisoner’s wrists to be chained when they could no longer stand. It was a thorough job. Enough to ensure a police officer could safely share his room with a dangerous prisoner.

Javert had watched as Madeleine handled the iron gingerly, his mind idly drifting back the question that was troubling him even then. Was he witnessing the distaste of a bourgeois who had never had to worry about such unpleasant instruments? Or was this the reflexive horror of the bagnard, concealed beneath a facade of elegant disapproval?

Madeleine finished his inspection with the brisk nod that he seemed to reserve entirely for Javert.

“It seems secure enough,” he admitted. “I’ll see to it that your portress is reimbursed for the extra meals when you’re called upon to perform these... duties.”

Recidivists, it had been determined, were a uniquely dangerous breed. The kind whose faults could not be corrected by a single spell in prison. To keep these brutes in line, they were to be personally held by the officer of the law who brought them to justice until they were returned to the bagne. Monsieur Madeleine disliked the new law and made no secret of it. 

“Why make an example of these wretches?” he had asked once. A question that had set Javert’s mind reeling.

“Why, who better to make an example of?” Javert spluttered. “These are the worst of the worst, Monsieur. If you can’t understand that then how can you hope to understand anything about the particulars of law enforcement?”

Madeleine had simply hummed in that infuriating way of his and found a reason to be somewhere else.

Now, though, there was nowhere for him to run to.

Javert’s hands remained steady through sheer force of will as he guided Valjean to the walls where so many of his mind had stood before. He took hold of Valjean’s wrist and felt the pulse beat its frantic pace beneath his thumb. It sped up into a desperate rhythm as he increased the pressure on that trapped flesh. Javert could not suppress his smile.

“This is what it feels like when society reasserts its proper order,” he muttered. And then, glancing up at Valjean. “Are you afraid? I don’t doubt that you are.”

Valjean’s eyes were wide. Javert pressed his thumb harder into Valjean’s wrist, watching as those eyes grew darker. And Javert shuddered with something he could not explain.

“It’s not unusual,” he said. Beneath his thumb, Valjean’s wrist was rough with scars that had been carved into his flesh over a previous lifetime. It was a wonder that he’d been able to hide his secrets for so long. “To be afraid of what’s to come.”

They were teetering on the brink of tremendous upheaval, after all. Valjean turned his face away, his breath coming in low, shuddering gasps. Even Javert, who had weathered worse changes than the removal of a fraudulent mayor, could not help but wonder what would be uprooted when their upside-down world was set right again.

Valjean shook his head. “I know all too well what’s to come,” he said.

It was true enough. Jean le Cric had run and run, damning himself all the more with each rebellion. This time, perhaps, he would be chastened by his time in Javert’s care. And when the bagne reclaimed him, he would finally accept his punishment.

“You should be thankful,” Javert said, half to himself, his thumb still idle on Valjean’s wrist. “The state has had the decency to chain you in place. Some of us are expected to hold ourselves upright.”

*

He woke three times in the night. The first time, he had barely been asleep. Valjean was still at the wall: His wrists locked in place and his ankles forcibly spread. His head had not even relaxed in place.

“He’s not sleeping,” Javert mumbled to himself, rolling over to take Valjean out of his line of vision. “Perfectly ordinary. Few of them get to sleep right away. Give him a few more hours.”

The second time he woke, the moonlight was streaming through the window, reflecting in Valjean’s silver hair. Valjean was still upright, his breath coming quick and deafeningly loud in the silent. His eyes were fixed on the bed. And Javert was hard. His cock throbbed in time with the rise and fall of Valjean’s chest.

Javert propped himself up on one elbow, gathering the blankets carefully up around himself. He peered at Valjean through the darkness.

Most men would have succumbed by now to exhaustion. He regularly woke to find the recidivists in his charge asleep and propped up against the wall, sometimes held up by nothing but their chained wrists. But Valjean’s body was rigid. His chin was steady and his arms were trembling faintly. Javert’s cock pulsed again at the sight.

He rolled onto his side, suppressing a groan as his sensitive flesh brushed soft linen. Valjean was awake, he reminded himself. There was no way to touch himself and retain any sort of dignity. It would pass overnight as these things usually did. But even when he closed his eyes, he could not erase the image of that strong body illuminated in the moonlight. Still alight with power, even in chains.

Too much rich food, Javert told himself. Too much comfortable living for a false mayor. No ordinary criminal, dodging the law and living on what scraps he could get hold of, could stay on his feet for as long as Valjean still did. But of course this man -- already stronger than most, kept healthy at the pleasure of the state -- was no ordinary criminal.

He drifted again, wakefulness ebbing away until he passed into a sleep that was half smothered and half drowned. The air felt thin and distant. He felt himself borne forward, as if dragged by invisible chains. And when he jerked awake with a desperate gasp, the morning light was already filtering through his windows.

Thankfully, his prick was soft. And when he stood, he was not surprised to see Valjean still upright against the wall.

“Have you slept at all?” He peered at Valjean as he approached, noting with satisfaction that although his prisoner was still on his feet, chin raised, he was not in quite the state Javert had left him in.

His hair was dishevelled, silver curls dampened with sweat against his forehead, and his face was flushed. While his eyes had been fixed on Javert the previous night, something had chastened him now. He kept his eyes lowered as Javert approached, and Javert smiled, reaching forward to tilt Valjean’s chin up and examine his expression. Not quite defeated, he thought, shifting forward and angling Valjean’s face upwards, but getting there. His lips were soft and slightly parted. His eyes were losing focus. His--

Oh.

Valjean’s eyes darted away, mouth opening in a pained groan as Javert’s thigh brushed the stiff bulge hidden beneath Valjean’s trousers. And as he watched, Valjean turned his head, his already flushed skin heating under Javert’s hand.

“Well then,” Javert said. Satisfaction at Valjean’s shame warred with a curious echoing discomfort. Had he not suffered this very affliction in the night? “The secrets a gentleman keeps. Am I to understand you’ve missed your time in chains, then?” He shifted his thigh forward again, as casually as though it were an accident. He watched with detached interest as Valjean exhaled a sound that was almost grateful, and then he withdrew. Valjean’s hips shifted forlornly into the air and then he fell still.

The word _cruel_ skittered through his mind and he brushed it aside.

“No, this is simply what is necessary,” he muttered to himself. “Not cruel at all. It can’t be helped if the man responds in unpredictable ways. Such behaviour is hardly the problem of the law. How could it be?”

When he happened to glance at Valjean, the man’s wide eyes were fixed on him. He pointedly allowed his eyes to travel downwards, to where Valjean was still achingly hard beneath his trousers. And when he looked up again, Valjean’s eyes were contritely lowered.

“Better,” Javert bit off. “I’ll leave you as you are for a while longer, shall I? You appear to be enjoying your new circumstances, after all.”

Valjean squeezed his eyes closed and bowed his head deeper. He twisted in his bonds, as though he might be able to curl up against the wall if his bound limbs were not keeping him spread open. One of his chained hands curled into a fist. Javert watched for a moment until he told himself he was losing interest. Then he went to find something to distract himself from the ache that was already beginning to set in again at the base of his stomach.

*

After another twelve hours, Javert secured a pair of manacles around Valjean’s wrists and lowered him shakily to the ground. Valjean shuddered as his knees touched the bare wooden boards, and something in Javert settled itself as he attached the manacles to the lower hook in the wall.

“You held out longer than most,” Javert remarked. Valjean’s arms were shaking under his hands, muscles that had held up for too long finally allowed to break under hours of pressure. “I suppose I should have known you would.”

Valjean did not respond. Had the words been driven out of him so quickly? Javert crouched down beside him and watched for a reaction as he spoke.

“There’s been some discussion in the town about what to do with you.”

Valjean made a low, hollow sound that startled Javert. Later on he realised that it must have been a sort of laugh. “What is there to discuss? We all know where I’m to be sent.”

“Normally I wouldn’t be privy to these discussions. But as you’re in my custody, I’ve heard more than I usually would.”

“You must be honoured.”

Javert bristled. “It is an honour. But that’s beside the point.” He stood, irritated. “Perhaps I should wait and let you discover it for yourself. There’s no cause for me to warn you. You’ve done nothing to earn it.”

That had got Valjean’s attention. He raised his head, hands involuntarily yanking at the manacles. Javert watched with some interest.

“How much of that is instinctive, I wonder,” he said. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say, and already you want to run.”

“I have an idea.” Valjean’s voice was low. His eyes darted to the window, and Javert watched as he tried to struggle to his feet against the chains what kept him low. After a few minutes’ scrabbling against the wall, he slumped in his bonds and looked up at Javert, eyes dark with something that stirred Javert in terrible ways. “That foul practice. They’re bringing it back.”

Javert took a step closer. “There has been some discussion. It was only halted because you put a stop to it, after all. And if the mayor who brings an end to a sound and effective punishment is himself a criminal, that naturally calls his reasoning into question.”

Curled up against the wall, Valjean shuddered.

“It will all go this way.” Valjean sounded as though he had been hollowed out. “Everything I tried to improve. Criminal justice is the easiest to do away with, of course. But soon the money will be gone, and that will do it for the hospital and the school and--”

“Enough,” Javert snapped. Valjean’s self-pity was the kind that could raise the hair on his arms and turn his stomach. Bad enough to listen to the man crying over his own skin. But this lamenting over his ill-gotten legacy was appalling. “Quiet now.”

He strode to the window and peered out at the town square. The carpenter and blacksmith had already cleared the old stone platform, and a few townspeople had paused in passing to watch the men work. The sight was curiously reassuring, but he felt a tremor in his knees as he watched them pile up beams of solid oak.

“They’re already beginning to rebuild the scaffold,” Javert said. His voice was distant, as though he were hearing it through another man’s ears. “I’d guess it will be ready for you by tomorrow.”

Valjean’s only response was a shaking breath. Javert nodded to himself and did not move from the window.

*

By the time they were summoned the next day, a murmuring crowd had gathered in the town square. Valjean did not struggle when he was stripped, his old scars exposed before the town that he had worked so hard to hide them from. Then the guards took hold of one arm each and marched him to the wooden structure.

Javert watched with undisguised fascination as Valjean’s arms were stretched up over his head. His wrists were chained so that he was facing away from the crowd. Then his ankles were fastened into place, those powerful thighs forced apart and defenceless against the things they all knew would come next.

It was Javert’s right to flog the prisoner himself, a right that he had claimed in other towns and under other circumstances. It would not be proper to do so here, though. He was not fully rested, after all. And even from his vantage point in the crowd, he could feel his will deteriorating in ways that he could not answer for.

It would have been all too easy, were he standing up there on the wooden platform, to run a hand down Valjean’s back before he raised the whip. Valjean was already sweating. The strained muscles of his arms and back were gleaming and the early evening light cast a golden sheen over his taut body. Javert knew the weight of a whip in his hand, just as well as Valjean knew the bite of the lash across his flesh. If he were up there, he thought, it would be too tempting to savour the moment before the first strike. Draw the soft leather across Valjean’s shoulder and let him feel how gentle that cruel instrument could be. And then he would drive that gentleness from Valjean’s memory in a matter of moments.

On the platform, a stifled groan was barely audible. Javert jerked his chin up in Valjean’s direction, expecting to see that broad back marred by the first lash. But no, the officer on the platform was still setting his stance, still swinging into nothingness. But Valjean, it seemed, was already in despair.

And who could blame him? He knew better than anyone else in the town what was to come. The flogging was agony, but the indignity of what came next was what broke the spirit. To be turned over to the men was to be degraded in the eyes of society. It was a useful means of reminding a bagnard of his place: Who would be foolish enough to believe he could walk free again after being put to such obscene use?

Javert released a shuddering breath, steeling himself for the sight. He would not raise the whip and he would not join the men in their punishment. The past few days had left him out of sorts. Best to watch, he decided. It would be a useful lesson for him as well.

The guard on the platform raised his arm. The whip sung as it carved an elegant arc through the air. Valjean howled as it landed. A vicious red stripe stood out across Valjean’s back and Javert allowed himself a moment of unbridled pleasure as the crowd rumbled its approval.

This was satisfying, there was no sense denying it. The way the people had gathered to watch. The women who had once whispered in alleys about their handsome mayor and his mysterious living quarters. The men who had doffed their caps to him and the children who had clamoured for his money.

Yes, some of the women covered their mouths with their hands or buried their faces in one anothers’ shoulders, but the men knew what was to come next. And they watched the proceedings unfold with unsmiling certainty. A fog of anticipation had settled over the town and they all knew as well as Javert that there was only one way to clear it.

The lash fell again. Again Valjean’s body jerked in response and a murmur trembled through the crowd. Five lashes was traditional. Enough to mark the criminal and punish him, but lenient enough to keep him conscious for the next stage of the punishment. Javert shuddered with a queasy fearfulness that he could not explain. But he did not have time to think on that peculiar reaction before the next blow fell.

This time it was even worse. Valjean twisted in his bonds and sobbed out loud. The whip sent a spray of red blood across the wooden platform, and Javert did not know the name for what he felt. A bubbling glee was rising within him, but it was dragged down and sideways by a dull ache that he could not understand. His stomach lurched.

A guttural voice somewhere behind him cried, “faster, will you?”

And then another, “come on, man. Finish the job!”

There was nothing to lean against when Javert’s legs buckled at the fourth blow. He remained upright, his eyes on Valjean’s sagging form, but his hand tightened on the neck of his cudgel. The men in the crowd were growing louder, pressing forward. Animals readying themselves to tear apart a fallen predator, Javert thought with disgust. But his revulsion was mingled with something terrified. The air was too thin. Javert could not tear his eyes away from the cruel red lines that had been cut into Valjean’s back.

The guard with the whip had lowered his arm on the scaffold, dragging out the anticipation before the final blow landed and the men were set loose. Javert’s breath was coming in curious bubbling gasps, and up on the scaffold he could see Valjean’s shoulders shaking.

 _Thank God he’s facing away,_ Javert thought, remembering those implacable eyes that had followed him across his rooms as Valjean stood chained to his wall and then knelt on his floor. It was a relief, after days of silent judgement, to be briefly relieved of that gaze and its certainty.

But also he thought, _at least he won’t have to see their faces_. The thought startled him. It startled him almost as much as the word that now floated back to him, harder still to deny this time: _Cruel._

Javert shook his head, gripping his cudgel even tighter. “Go on then!” a man behind him shouted, and he clenched his jaw, willing the lash to fall. Willing it to stay as far from Valjean’s flesh as possible.He wished to urge the men forward and on to their duty. But the thought of the men of the town lining up behind Jean Valjean to fulfil their duty filled him with mounting nausea.

“Get on with it!” the man behind him shouted again. The words sent a chill through Javert.

He should put a stop to this. It would be madness, of course. A violation of his duty. But Valjean was in his care as an officer of the law. He had the power to deter, or even cancel, a punishment. But to do so hardly seemed justified. What reason could he possibly give? An upset stomach? Some disturbed breathing?

 _The fact that it is cruel_ , the voice was insistent, distinct now in his mind. Clear enough to recognise as Valjean’s voice, impossible as such a thing surely was. And then it was desperate, echoing in his ear with Valjean’s scream as the final lash fell. Please, Javert. Please.

“What is this?” Javert demanded out loud.

No one seemed to hear him. The men, having counted the five ceremonial blows, were pushing up onto the stone platform. Valjean was slumped, supported only by his chains, and his breaths appeared to be coming in heaving sobs. The officer had tucked his bloodstained whip into his belt and was now trying to keep the crowd of men in line.

Javert staggered forward, circling the scaffold. “What is the meaning of this, Valjean?”

Valjean did not raise his head. Javert staggered towards the scaffold, gesturing for the officer to keep the crowd at bay. He clambered up onto the wooden structure. The stench of blood was heady and metallic. When he circled around to clasp Valjean by the jaw, Valjean made a low, pained sound. His lips moved without forming words and Javert had to rest his free hand against the solid wood to support himself.

“Tell me, Valjean,” Javert’s voice was rough. “What have you done to me?”

Valjean’s eyes flickered upwards, dull and unfocused from the pain. His lips moved uselessly again for a moment. But though Javert could not hear the words, he could guess well enough at Valjean’s meaning.

Javert looked down. Jean Valjean’s bare ankles were spattered with flecks of his own blood. His thighs, still smooth and untouched after all these years, were deliberately spread. His stomach was flat and dusted with white hair. But his flesh was quivering and his cock stood thick and proud against it. The sight was unbearable, made worse by the echoing ache at Javert's core that he could not explain or understand.

Over Valjean’s shoulder, the men were lining up to take their turns re-educating the recidivist. Javert shuddered. Should he put a stop to this? He could do. It would only take a word to put an end to it. To spare Valjean the indignity of this final part of his punishment and -- in the process -- spare Javert the horrifying reverberated sensation that would surely come with it. When he refocused on Valjean’s face, Valjean was watching him with wide, half pleading eyes.

“You know, don’t you? You can tell what this will do to me,” Javert murmured. Some curious instinct brought his hand up to cup Valjean’s face. Between them, Valjean’s cock was twitching. Liquid welled at the head, leaving a wet smear across Valjean’s stomach. “And to you too.”

Valjean’s breath shuddered hot and damp against his neck. Javert nodded. “Yes. It will be bad for the both of us. I can see that well enough. And no doubt you’d like me to put an end to it.”

He traced the shape of Valjean’s cheekbone, following it down to the solid jaw and then trailing his fingers up to touch Valjean’s mouth. When Valjean’s lips parted, it was no attempt to seduce or persuade. His eyes were lowered and his mouth was slack. Javert pushed two fingers inside. Then a third, until Valjean’s lips were stretched around him. He hardly thought about the men behind Valjean or the question that neither of them had quite articulated. He brought his other hand up to tangle in Valjean’s hair, tugging a little until Valjean’s head was tilted backwards. Valjean’s blood was still dripping onto the wooden platform. His mouth was hot and yielding.

“This is going to hurt you,” Javert said. “And I think it will hurt me too.”

Valjean raised his eyes. They focused, just barely, on Javert. And Javert could tell the words had stung as they landed. He released the handful of Valjean’s hair and beckoned behind Valjean’s head to the first of the men.

“It will be no less than you deserve,” Javert spoke into Valjean’s ear. This was madness. If anyone overheard him-- “And it will hurt me too, more than I deserve. But I won’t put a stop to it. I won’t. That’s the difference between us.”

The man behind Valjean stepped closer. He grabbed a handful of hair, yanking Valjean’s head back and exposing his scarred throat. Valjean closed his eyes and groaned. His cock pressed up against the front of Javert’s trousers, and Javert could no longer tell whose pain they were feeling and whose pleasure.

*

After it was over, the blacksmith unlocked Valjean’s wrists and ankles. Valjean’s weight sagged onto Javert, who guided him down to the wooden platform. They slumped there, exhausted and filthy with blood and sweat and spend, and Javert’s wrists pulsed with Valjean’s heartbeat. 

“Still,” Valjean mumbled, barely audible. “They will take me soon.”

Javert gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on Valjean’s wrist. There was no need to say anything more.


End file.
